


a question of worth

by raygunnerdown



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Purple Prose, S6 post-hell trauma, and like zero dialogue, driving as a coping mechanism, i started this in 2013 before the fandom died, no romo bro
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-08
Updated: 2017-06-08
Packaged: 2018-11-11 07:54:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11144124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raygunnerdown/pseuds/raygunnerdown
Summary: Sam doesn't know why Dean is angry. Castiel doesn't know why Dean is angry. And by the end of the night, neither does Dean.post-S6 oneshot.





	a question of worth

**Author's Note:**

> Since I haven't really written anything in the last few years, I figured I'd polish this up and submit it. 
> 
> Bonus points if you can find where 2013 me ends and 2017 me begins!

It's the road in front of him that keeps Dean driving--the endless stretch of worn, grey asphalt that rolls beneath the Impala's wheels that keeps his head stapled firmly to his shoulders. It's the last line of defense he has against the pit of the starless sky ( _a_ pit, he thinks, but not _the_  pit) and the overwhelming urge to park her on the side of the road and vent into the heart-of-nowhere that that his mindless drive had led him into.

Come to think of it, there's nothing stopping him from doing just that. Sam is back at the motel, plugged into his laptop, likely forgetting about Dean already. There's no one keeping him cramped up inside the dimly lit Impala. Driving is a cure, he thinks. But so is screaming, sometimes.

The shoulder of the road is rocky. Tires crunch over loose chunks of asphalt as he pulls to a stop; the empty sky seems to welcome the noise. Dean slams the door behind him and takes a deep breath, his mind filling first with everything he wants to get out, to get _rid_  of--the lingering sensation of his entrails being tugged loose; the horrible _wrongness_  of seeing only unmarked flesh beneath his clothing; the horror and helplessness of watching his little brother start down a dark road he doesn't understand; the overpowering notion that _he doesn't fucking deserve to be saved_ \--and then--

"Hello, Dean."

He stops short, cursing under his breath. Air hisses from between his clenched teeth. The flutter of wings must've been covered by the creaking of the car door; he wishes it would all go to hell. Except he doesn't--he's seen hell, and that's the problem.

"What do you want, Cas?" he barks, hardly forming the question, turning to face the angel. Castiel is standing somewhat bent (his trenchcoat askew, but Dean doesn't register) against the cold backdrop of the darkened heavens, like the night sky is heavy on his shoulders--like an uncertain soldier with his comrades on his back.

Castiel shrugs awkwardly, as if the movement is foreign to him. It probably is; Dean rolls his eyes in annoyance, emphasizing the gesture for the angel's benefit. "What, you don't know? Righteous soldier of the Almighty doesn't know why he's dropping in on a guy better left alone?" He barely pauses for a response, despite Castiel's motion to provide one. "Y'know what? Just--just get the hell away from me, man. Leave me alone."

"Dean--" the angel starts. The hunter begins to cut him off, but stops at the look Cas gives him. Castiel takes a step forward; it starts as a shuffle, but ends in a polished black shoe planted firmly in the loose asphalt. "Dean, you called me here."

He leans back against the car door, somewhat surprised--but not entirely so, and it's the fact that he can't pinpoint exactly why that is that truly unsettles him. He thinks: getting out of the car, getting ready to scream, to explode with every bit of pain and memory that has built up in his brain since the moment he broke through the earth and found himself surrounded by fallen trees.

A thought arises. Sparks flying; shadows flickering; a gravel-and-thunder voice asking, "You don't think you deserve to be saved?" echoes in his head, the sentiment of _I wasn't worth it_ that had carried him out of the car still the same.

The distance that had been fifteen feet--far enough that, in the half-light afforded by a distant moon, made his form just distinguishable enough to be, well, distinguishable--had become less than ten. Dean shifts his weight off of the car door. He peers almost curiously at Castiel, and realizes that he had never answered the angel's first question. Castiel stares back, head canted in either confusion or scrutiny or both.

"You feel...unworthy," Cas ventures.

Dean scoffs. "Dude, we have already had this conversation. If you think I'm gonna sit here and take self-help advice from some Dr. Phil with wings, well, buddy--you've got another thing coming." He turns to get back in the car and finds that the angel is blocking his path.

"Dean," Castiel starts again. Dean doesn't much care for the way his name sounds in that gravelly voice; it leaves a funny feeling coiled around the base of his spine - and not exactly in a good way, either. He moves to sidestep the angel. A hand on his shoulder stops him.

"Dean..." the angel trails off, this time leaving a note of something like pleading in the air. Just that one word--a request, but Dean doesn't know what for. He doesn't make eye contact, just stares off into the shadow-soaked gravel beyond the ambient glow of the headlights. The air stills around him; he tries to to think, not to feel the steady pressure, warm through his t-shirt.

The hand moves down, coming to rest again on his upper bicep, and from the little shock of recognition that runs through him Dean knows exactly what shape on his skin the hand has come to fill. He turns now, the weight of Castiel's gaze suddenly too much, and he realizes that he doesn't know if he's really angry or not. He sees his name on Castiel's lips before the angel speaks it.

He leans in slowly but suddenly, half expecting Castiel to move away but not really caring, just needing something to hold to--something, anything, a root to tear at while his soul pretends it was never dragged out of hell. The hand stays on his shoulder, though, even as he draws closer. His own breath suddenly seems to acquire more volume, filling the remaining space between them, and then Dean realizes he's been staring at Castiel's mouth. He tears his gaze away, forces his green eyes to meet blue, and without even really meaning to, he presses their lips together.

It's not a kiss, not at first, because for a second Castiel stiffens completely and Dean is left floundering. He's not entirely sure that he's in control of himself; there's the usual implied "fuck it" running through his mind, but hey, his angel-kissing daydreams were securely into his subconscious and yet holy fucking _shit_  he's standing here in the middle of nowhere with his head in hell and his mouth on an angel and -

And then everything goes white for a second, because Castiel is shifting in front of him, leaning into the kiss with a tenderness that Dean didn't think could come from such a stiff-shouldered figure. It's not romantic, not even a little, but it's...not bad. Maybe even nice. Maybe nicer that Dean's heart can stand.

He pulls away with a wounded sort of gratitude. "I...thanks," he says, suddenly sheepish and very aware of Castiel's earnest blue gaze. A step back, a quick run through his hair, and he feels about as normal as he thinks he can, at least for the night. Dean feels hollow, cried-out, but maybe a bit lighter than when he left the hotel. He turns before Castiel can speak, shoes crunching on the rocky shoulder.

"Let's go home, man."

**Author's Note:**

> I started this in when I was fifteen, intending for it to end in smut. I'd like to think I've grown some since then.
> 
> If you've read this far, thank you. Hopefully I'll get back into the writing groove soon.


End file.
